


Your Mama Taught You What To Love (But She Never Taught You How)

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are ten steps to self-rediscovery—and Quinn's got nine of them down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Mama Taught You What To Love (But She Never Taught You How)

Title: Your Mama Taught You What To Love (But She Never Taught You How)  
Pairing: Quinn Fabray-centric; leading Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S3 promos.  
Summary: There are ten steps to self-rediscovery—and Quinn's got nine of them down.  
A/N: Title from Augustana's "Someone's Baby Now."

_1_

It doesn’t happen terribly often that Quinn thinks Santana got the better part of the deal in life, but sometimes she can’t shake the idea. Which is sort of ridiculous, when it’s all boiled down, because Santana is a raging bitch with more intimacy issues than a human being should be legally allowed. Santana is brimming with self-loathing and violence. Santana has honed the uncanny ability to find anything she hates about herself and turn it outwards toward someone weaker, destroying them thoroughly. Santana is a terrible person.

Except she isn’t. Santana is cunning and quick, smarter than anyone’s willing to credit a cheerleader, and she’s got one hell of a loyalty streak. Santana is strong and sleek and has a magnetism no one can deny. Santana has Brittany.

Santana is in love, and even though it has taken her the better part of a decade to admit it, here she is: sitting in this pizza joint with her shoulder nudged up against Brittany’s, a blissful smile on her lips. Hellish though Quinn knows her summer has been—Catholic-rigid parents, a coming out process that sent her reeling from home at eleven in the evening only to show up on Quinn’s doorstep a block over, three days living on Quinn’s floor without a word of explanation before Brittany came along to pick her up—she’s come out on the other side bigger, stronger, wiser. Or something.

Either way you spin it, she’s got a girlfriend who would take a speeding car head-on for her. That’s more impressive than anything Quinn can suggest.

Because Quinn’s got the same self-loathing, the same over-boiling rage at each and every one of her flaws, but what does she get for it? The courage to stand up and prove herself different? The strength to let everyone know who she really is?

The way she sees it, the only power she has in this school is the superhuman ability to use and abuse—and to get what’s coming to her each and every time. Finn. Puck. Beth. Sam. Finn again. These people who come and go, flitting awkwardly through her fingers without even a second of staying power. Santana can hold on, clench her hand at the last moment and prevent what she wants from escaping. Quinn can’t even win a damn tiara.

It’s embarrassing, to put it mildly. Embarrassing, and depressing, and as Quinn stands on the street outside and watches her best friends nuzzle over steaming slices, she finds herself nearly biting through her lip. There’s so much there that she _needs_ , and Santana has it. Santana found it without anyone’s help. Quinn doesn’t have a clue.

She’s missing something.

Standing with her forehead against the cool glass, feeling the July sunshine beat down on her cropped hair, Quinn crosses her fingers and swears she will have it figured out by the time school starts. _Really_ figured out, not that haphazard attempt from middle school. This time, she will find the _true_ Quinn Fabray.

There has never been a more difficult project.

_2_

First things first, she figures, is the look. It’s not _the_ most important thing; every Bible passage she’s ever read has professed the essential nature of what’s underneath, first and foremost. And she’ll get there—eventually.

But this whole reinvention thing is daunting as hell, and it’s best to start small.

Her mother smiles vaguely when she stumbles through the front door with a bag of hair dye, obviously assuming her little girl is going for the slightly-sunkissed look again. When she trumps down the stairs two hours later, her head a vibrant shade of pink, the expression on Judy Fabray’s face goes from indulgent to minutely murderous. She sways against the kitchen counter, one ring-encrusted hand flailing to catch her balance.

“Mom, you almost put your hand in salsa,” Quinn points out as lightly as possible on her way to the fridge. “Careful.”

“Careful?” her mother sputters. “ _Careful_? Quinnie. What. I don’t—what did you _do_?”

“New look,” Quinn says casually, popping the tab on a can of Sprite and downing half of it in a gulp. Her mother wavers closer, squinting as though she believes her daughter has transformed into a mirage on the spot.

“New—Quinnie, you’re _pink_.”

“Very.” Quinn smiles, clutching the can a little tighter to prevent her hand from trembling. Judy swipes a lock of hair aside with one finger.

“Now, Quinn. I didn’t say a word when you came home from that trip with all your beautiful hair sheared off, but _this_ …I don’t know what to say about _this_.”

“You did too say a word,” Quinn reminds her, shrinking back as calmly as she can. “You called me a gypsy vagabond and asked if I was joining a rock band.”

“I—well. Yes.” Judy chews her lip thoughtfully, one eyebrow raising absently towards her hairline. Quinn hides a smile. That’s a trick she made certain to learn years ago, during her first identity revamp. Judy Fabray’s killer eyebrow is just about the strongest weapon in her arsenal.

Or was. Things have changed now, no doubt about it. She needs something bigger.

“I like it,” she says at last, twirling out of her mother’s reach. “I needed a change.”

“But it’s such a _drastic_ change—“ Judy is probing her forehead with two fingers, blonde hair shaking back and forth unhappily. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t just get a manicure.”

“Needed a change,” Quinn repeats as she moves back toward the staircase. “Still do. Big things coming, Mom. Oh, and by the way?”

Judy steps from the kitchen, lips twisted in anxiety. Quinn smiles sweetly.

“I might join a rock band.”

She’s up the stairs before the wail can reach her ears.

 

_3_

“Damn,” Mike breathes, head tilting as he takes her in. “ _Damn_.”

“Fabray, you’ve got some balls,” Puck adds. Tina’s grin threatens to crack her pretty face wide open.

“This is _awesome_.”

“So you’ll help me?” She curses herself for sounding in the least bit nervous, but the fact of the matter is, this is terrifying. The first time she went through these motions, it was easy: throw on a few 90’s teen comedies, see what the celebrities were wearing, use tried-and-true bitch moves from decades gone by. Being Head Cheerio, once the weight was off and the pimples were vanquished, was cake.

Being the _real_ Quinn Fabray—that’s going to take some work.

“Absolutely,” Tina assures her, circling to see the back of her head. “Absolutely, we’ll help. This is so cool.”

“You sure you want me?” Mike asks, dropping back against his couch cushion. “I’m not really big on this stuff. You’d be better off with Mercedes. Or Kurt.”

“God, no.” Quinn shakes her head. “Mercedes would never let me get away with this without the third degree, and Kurt—let’s just say, Kurt’s a little too good for what I need.”

Mike’s smile broadens. “Not lookin’ for flare and feathers, huh?”

“Dead right,” she deadpans. “I’m coming to you because you’ve got the cool factor down. And you—“ She points square at Puck’s chest. “You’ve got the badass I need.”

“All night long, baby,” he drawls. She catches the faintest glimpse of something in his eyes, buried as deep as he can push it, and looks away. Puck was a long shot, a strange call in the middle of the afternoon, but she’s glad he’s here. Boyfriend material, he may not have been, but if anybody can help her with the attitude adjustment, it’s going to be Mr. Juvie.

“What about me?” Tina asks, coming to rest at last on a chair. Her eyes are bright, but confused. Quinn can’t blame her. She’s never actually spent time alone with Tina before.

“Clothes,” she admits. “I need help with the shopping. And there is absolutely no way these two are going to be a help in that department.”

“Woman speaks the truth,” Mike agrees sagely. Puck shrugs.

“Either way, I’ll just be lookin’ at her boobs.”

Tina shoots him what Quinn will come to call her Woman Empowerment Glare. He reels around to face the wall, hands behind his back.

“I’m in time-out again, aren’t I?”

“This happens a lot,” Mike stage-whispers in Quinn’s direction. Tina winks.

“First things first,” she says, clapping her hands against her knees and looking Quinn up and down. “I need to know what you’re looking for.”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be looking,” Quinn replies, half-jokingly. Tina nods.

“I mean, like, your look. You’ve got the neon hair rocking pretty well, so I’m guessing you’re looking into Puck-Rock Chic?”

“Just not babydoll dresses and cheerleading uniforms.” Quinn shrugs. “I don’t know what I want, but I am damn well sure of what I don’t.”

“Shame,” Puck mumbles, and instantly presses his nose more firmly against the wall. “I know, I know. Two more minutes on my sentence.”

Mike chucks a throw pillow at his back. Tina bops to her feet and winds an arm around Quinn’s shoulders, cheerful as ever.

“This is going to be fun.”

 

_4_

Judy nearly faints when she comes down the stairs two days later, clad in shades of gray and pants with chains hanging off of them. She catches her mother’s arm before she can swoon.

“What are you _wearing_?”

“Told you, Mom. New look.”

“You look like a delinquent!” Judy exclaims, allowing Quinn to lead her to the couch. “Honestly, what are you _thinking_?”

 _That Tina picks exactly the kinds of clothes I needed, apparently._ “Sometimes a woman has to change things up a little. Remember how you felt after you kicked Dad out? ‘Times change, Quinnie,’ that’s what you said to me.”

“I meant—I mean—I didn’t mean _this_.” Judy shakes her head. “Quinn, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I certainly hope you don’t plan on wearing _that_ on your first day of school.”

“’Course not.” Quinn smiles brightly. “I’ve got a whole other outfit picked out for that.”

“Thank God,” Judy sighs. Quinn pats her arm.

“It’s modeled after _The Clash_.”

There’s a sort of sweetness to the agony on her mother’s face that makes it hard to keep her smile steady. It would be so easy to burst out in hysterical giggles at this point—this whole thing feels just ridiculous enough for it—but she knows it would be counterproductive. She needs to be taken seriously, and for that to happen, she needs to be serious. At least for now.

She’s still not positive what kind of girl she’s going to be, but she’s damn sure it isn’t one who will get pushed around. Not anymore. When her mother bustles up into her room and draws a pretty sundress from the closet, waving it around like it will exorcise whatever demons have set up shop in Quinn’s body, she pastes on a smirk.

Pretty sundresses just won’t do it anymore.

 

_5_

Drums are Finn’s thing. Guitars belong to Puck. She decides to learn both.

“You sure about this, Princess?” Puck questions, scratching the stubble around his mohawk. His living room is packed tight with equipment: amps, cases, old acoustics and gleaming electrics. The Puckerman family may not have much, but the rock gear his father left is nothing short of impressive.

Quinn stands in the middle of it all, appraising the nearest instrument. “Completely. You said you had the badass element for me. This is what I need.”

“Yeah, but—“ He frowns up at her from the floor, mindlessly switching from one chord to the next on his bruised acoustic. “Quinn, this isn’t easy stuff. I can’t teach you everything in two months.”

“Didn’t ask you to.” She sinks down next to him, kneeling next to an amp she isn’t sure she’ll ever understand how to use. “Look, Puck, I need this. Just the basics, okay, and then I promise I’ll take care of the rest on my own. Please?”

“Don’t have to beg,” he mumbles. “I’ll teach you. I just don’t see what you’re going for here.”

“Neither do I,” she admits, more honest than she’s been with him since Shelby carted Beth away in an expensive designer stroller. “I just know what I need, okay? The basics. Teach me the art of rock star.”

He cracks a smile as she grasps his shoulder and gives it a friendly shake. “That shit ain’t learned, babe.”

She grins back. “Try.”

It takes less than an hour for her fingers to feel like bleeding, but Quinn pushes through. He teaches her a handful of basic chords and instructs her to bounce between them over and over again. “Don’t strum,” he reminds her when her right hand moves for the strings. “Just bounce.”

So she bounces—again and again for an hour, until the soft skin of her fingertips sport the indentations of strings, until her left arm aches. She pauses long enough to shake out her wrist.

Puck ruffles her hair. “Getting there,” he encourages, pulling an instrument into his own lap and moving to sit across from her. “Now. Do what I do.”

Guitars are painfully difficult to learn, but Puck, it turns out, was the easy one. When it comes to the second half of her crash-course in rock star education, her professor is a little less easy-going.

“Finn,” she snaps impatiently, rocking slightly from left to right. “ _Finn_. Are you going to let me in, or not?”

His jaw zips shut like he’s been smacked. “I. Quinn?”

“For the fifth time,” she grumbles, “it’s _me_.”

“Your _hair_ …” He reaches out to touch it, wearing the same baffled expression her mother hasn’t lost in two weeks. “Did you fall in a cotton candy machine?”

“Oh, come—just let me _in_ , Finn. You said you’d teach me to play.”

Moving like a man in a dream, he steps back from the doorway and allows her to leave the porch at last. “Sorry. I just haven’t seen you all summer, and you kind of looked—well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you looked like you might murder me last year. With the whole Nationals thing and me dumping you for Rachel. Again.”

She resists a growl. “I’m not going to murder you, Finn. I just want to learn the drums. Can you help me, or should I ask that band kid instead?”

“Who? Paul?” His lip curls. “I’ve got you. Paul can’t tell a snare from a cymbal.”

Neither can she, but she guesses appealing to Finn’s competitve nature is as good a starting block as any. She catches a handful of his t-shirt and pulls him in the direction of the Hudson-Hummel basement. “Great. Let’s get this show on the road, then. I’ve got a lesson with Puck at five.”

His eyebrows narrow. “A lesson, or a _lesson_?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Quinn snips, “but I suggest you don’t start this off with being a jealous jerk. You’re the one who dumped _me_ , remember?”

_After I cheated on you, but look, bygones really need to be bygones if I’m going to get this reinvention thing done right._

Finn’s expression clears. He pulls free of her habitually-dragging hand and adjusts his shirt before reaching for the basement door. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“No problem.” She hestitates on the first step. “Kurt’s not here, is he?”

“Nope. Over at Blaine’s. Did you know his eyebrows feel exactly like that sweater my grandma knitted me last Christmas?”

“How would I know—okay.” She shakes her head, hiding a smile. Finn’s kind of an idiot sometimes, but he’s a mostly-sweet idiot, and she’s glad he’s willing to help her. Water under the bridge and all that touchy-feely crap.

She’s pretty sure new!Quinn isn’t big on touchy-feely—old!Quinn certainly wasn’t—but if it works, she’ll use it.

Drums prove to be slightly easier than guitar, if only because her arms are already used to working in strange new ways by now. And there are no glass-shard strings ripping into her fingers. That’s a plus. Still, rhythm is frustrating, and it’s hard to remember all the different motions she has to keep going at once. It takes an hour and a half for her patience to come to a screeching halt.

“You’ve been doing this since you were a kid? Seriously?” Frustrated, she brushes a lock of pink out of her eyes and thumps down with one of her sticks. Finn leans against the wall, twirling a stick of his own between his fingers.

“You’re doing all right, for a beginner,” he assures her. “When I learned, it was mostly banging on pots and pans until Mom got annoyed. No rhythm, no art. You’re starting off on the right foot.”

“I guess.” It’s too embarrassing to admit to him, but she kind of assumed drums were an instant-learn. Tap, bang, smash, and you’ve got music. This is going to be harder than she thought.

 _Worth it_ , she reminds herself. _Going to be totally worth it._

A few minutes later—or it could be an hour; Quinn’s whole focus is lit on the drums in front of her, the steady beat trickling out—footsteps come clattering down the stairs. Her head jerks up, worried that it’s going to be Kurt and his well-meaning-but-judgmental little sneer, or (worse) Finn’s mom. She’s not sure which would be worse.

When Rachel Berry comes trotting out of the stairwell, her stomach just about drains into her sneakers. _Oh._

“Hello, Finn,” Rachel chirps, looking considerably more tan than usual in her bright green shorts and matching tank top. “I know our date wasn’t until seven, but I made a new batch of cookies for Mercedes’ birthday, and I wanted you to test them before I wrapp—“

Quinn’s eyes remain fixedly glued to the sticks moving against the skins, but she still senses Rachel’s attention sliding to where she sits. Uncomfortable, she wriggles a little on the stool.

“Quinn?” Rachel half-whispers, inching nearer. Finn looks decidedly like a giant moose in headlights.

“Uh, yeah. She wanted to learn drums for, um, for something, and I said I’d teach her. But we’re not doing anything! I promise, I’m just showing—she’s just—um. Are you mad?”

Rachel stops a few feet away, staring open-mouthed at the girl behind the drum kit. “Quinn Fabray, you—“

“Yeah, uh, hi, Rachel.” Her tongue pokes out between her teeth, her foot moving against the pedal with aching slowness. “I’m almost out of time, I promise, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“Hair,” Rachel repeats, twirling a lock of her own around a finger mindlessly. “Your _hair_.”

“Yeah, it’s different.” Quinn raises her eyes to meet Rachel’s for a second, then drops them hastily. “You know what? I think I’m good here. For the moment. And Puck’s expecting me for the guitar stuff, so I think I’m gonna…go. Yeah.”

She’s out the door and halfway down the block before the urge to kick herself in the ass cuts in. Since when has Quinn Fabray— _any_ variation of Quinn Fabray—been nervous enough to _stammer_ around Rachel Berry?

That’s an alteration she is _so_ not going to keep.

 

_6_

The look is the easy part: the hair, the chains around her neck, the baggy pants and rolled-up sleeves on intentionally-ragged t-shirts. She wears sneakers with holes in them now, or motorcycle boots. She walks with her head high and her shoulders bowed recklessly. Thanks to Tina’s style advice and Mike Chang’s lessons on the Graceful Slouch, she’s good to go.

The attitude is almost as effortless. As long as she remembers to practice Puck’s sneer in the mirror as she stands with her borrowed guitar strapped across her chest, she figures it won’t be any harder than stalking McKinley’s halls in that bright red skirt. It’s all about confidence and fear tactics, easy as that. The callouses on her fingers help.

What _isn’t_ so easy is that final aspect, the part that she suspects is more important than all the rest. The hair, the clothes, the rock star persona—that’s all for show. What’s real, what’s truly necessary, the thing that Santana found and Quinn has not? That’s the hard part.

She has to _be_ this person. Not look like. Not aspire to. Not convince everyone else. Be.

And for that, she needs a church.

It feels weird to stroll through the doors in this outfit, with punk-rock hair obstructing her vision and a bandana tied around her left bicep. She feels like a poser, a little kid dressed up for Halloween, but it’s Tuesday; there’s no one else here. And there’s nowhere else in town that can make her truly face herself.

Whoever herself happens to be.

 _I’m not going to get pushed around this year, God_ , she promises even before she sinks into a pew. Her leg drums spastically against the tile floor, her knee driving up against the shelf where the song books are kept. She bows her head.

_I’m not going to make the same mistakes. I want You to know that. Because I know I’ve messed up, I know I’ve let a lot go—with the cheating, with the baby, with Sam, with Rach—well, You know. You know what I’ve done better than anyone. So I think it’s only fair that I say this to Your face. Sort of._

_I’m not coming back. Not for a while, and maybe not ever. Don’t take it personally or anything, I just—I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep coming here week after week and wind up with nothing to show for it. I’ve spent_ years _playing the dutiful Christian daughter, and…I don’t know. I can’t anymore._

She pauses, eyes scrunched shut. Her jaw twitches.

“I can’t,” she says again, out loud this time. Her voice, though soft, rebounds back to her. “I’m done for a while. I need to try this instead, this person who is going to stand up and do what she needs for her own sake, for once. No parents to please, no sister to make proud, no boyfriend to dance around with. I need to focus on me.”

She waits for the answer that doesn’t come, the response she’s pretty positive she wasn’t expecting anyway. The silence presses around her ears.

“I’m going now,” she whispers. “I’m going, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I need—I need someone to be there for me. And so far, You haven’t. Not the way I need. Someone needs to look out for me, and if it’s not going to be God, I’m going to do it myself.”

She stands, half-expecting a lightning bolt to streak through the room and shatter the altar in a fit of divine rage, but nothing comes. Nothing has ever come. It’s about time she accepted that.

Outside, standing on the lush green lawn, she looks up at the towering stone cross and lights her first cigarette. She coughs all the way back to Puck’s.

 

_7_

“You gonna play that thing, or just stare at it?” Puck leans over and thunks a hand against the body of her guitar. Quinn jumps.

“Sorry.”

“No need, babe. Just lookin’ to see if you’re still in there.” He cocks his head, mouth pulling in concern. “You need a light? Or a beer?”

She shrugs. “Don’t know what I need. Not sure what else is left.”

“Well. You can play a full song without bleeding all over my good strings. That’s progress.” He nudges her with his shoulder, nearly knocking her off the bed. “You wanna play Tekken or something?”

“Nope.” She picks her way through a random melody, mindlessly swaying along. “Don’t know what I want.”

He groans. “You were easier to deal with preggo, Princess.”

She slides him a glare. “You want the time-out corner, Puckerman?”

“Hey, only Lucy Liu can pull that card on me.” He stands and stretches his arms above his head, his t-shirt riding up. For half a second, she remembers what she saw in him that night two years ago, and for several months after. He’s a good guy, Noah Puckerman, and his abs are something to write home about. She smiles.

Then his arms drop and he lets out a long belch that reminds her exactly _why_ she didn’t bother chasing him once the child tying them together was out the door.

“So,” he says, hoisting himself onto the desk he never uses and making a show of dropping his chin into his palm. “What’s the plan this year, scary rocker girl?”

“What do you mean?”

He waves a hand in her direction. “You’ve gone through this whole makeover, and you’re telling me you don’t have a plan? Come on! Think big, Fabray. Gonna light some shit on fire or what?”

“Don’t know. Maybe.” Honestly, she really can’t see herself enjoying arson, but then again, a year ago she would never have placed a lit cigarette between her lips. Things change.

“How about dudes? Gonna pick the newest fruit and defile his pretty ass a week in?” His eyebrows wiggle. With any other guy in the world, she would assume he was fishing for any potential feelings she might have left, but this is Puck. Games aren’t his strong suit.

“I’m not looking for a pretty ass, Puck, but if you find one, feel free to sample it for me.” She sticks her tongue out, grinning. He laughs.

“Fabray, think it’s safe to say we’re bros now, and bros don’t front. Evans had a hell of an ass.”

“He’s all yours,” she drawls. A nasty-sounding non-chord leaps from the guitar; she winces and sets it aside. “I’m not sure why I went through all the trouble to learn that thing. Schuester’s never going to let me play.”

He leans forward on the desk, hands clasped between his legs. “Force it, man.”

She tilts her head inquisitively, and he sighs. “Seriously, you’ve got the look down like it’s your job, and I’m not gonna lie: it’s hot as hell. But that’s not going to be good enough. You want to be badass? You have to _be_ badass. You know that, right?”

It’s what she’s been telling herself since starting this thing, so she’s a little surprised to feel a trickle of distaste when he says it. “Of course I fucking know that.”

“Swearing,” he points out appreciatively. “Good. Step one. You should amp that up a little, let everybody know you mean business.”

“Quit telling me what to do,” she snaps. He leans back, smiling proudly.

“Exactly.”

Quinn sinks back against his pillow, groaning. “I just don’t see the _point_ , you know? Schue does his thing, and it’s always the same. He ignores the hell out of most of us, especially the girls. Why should I even go back?”

Puck spreads his hands. “Good question. Why should you?”

“I mean,” she goes on slowly, “I only joined to keep an eye on Finn, right? So, what’s the point of sticking around now that he’s got—“ The name dies on her lips before she can spit it out. She swallows. Puck’s eyebrow arches.

“Now that he’s got someone else?”

“Right,” she agrees, relieved for the out. Somehow, every time Rachel Berry comes up, her tongue does that annoying thing where it trips over itself. Thank God Puck is smart enough to let it go.

“So…what you’re saying is…you’re not coming back to Glee?”

She shrugs, rolling over and clutching the pillow against her chest. “I don’t know. Would that be bad?”

“Babe, seems to me bad is exactly what you’re going for these days,” he answers dryly. “But I’m not gonna tell you what you need to do. If you come back, you know we’ll all be there for you, but if you don’t…”

“They’ll be pissed,” she observes. “All of them. Maybe they won’t like me so much if I leave them in the lurch.”

His shoulders reach up around his ears. “So? They don’t like you for you, they’re assholes. Life’s easy that way, Fabray. You go for what you want, and fuck everybody else’s opinion. That’s what bein’ a rock star’s all about.”

She sits up, smiling faintly. “You do realize you’re pretty much urging me away from the one thing we’ve really got in common, right?”

He slides off the desk and plops down beside her. “We had a kid together. Something tells me that’s enough in common for a lifetime. Anyway, Quinn, you need to do this shit—whatever it may be—for _you_. End of story. You decide, and whatever you roll with, I’ll back you up. Easy as that.”

It’s the first time she’s hugged him in a year.

 

_8_

Rachel Berry rings her doorbell two days before school starts, and, in true Rachel form, she does so at eight in the morning. Quinn stumbles to the door in the ragged shirt she slept in and jeans that are more hole than denim.

“What the hell—“

“Good morning, Quinn,” Rachel greets her briskly, breezing past her into the foyer without permission. “I’m glad you’re awake. I have something to discuss with you.”

“I don’t want—“

“It’s not a matter of desire, Quinn, it’s necessity.” Rachel pauses at the mouth of the living room, hands on her hips. “May I sit?”

Quinn mutely waves at the couch with one hand and restlessly fingercombs her bedhead with the other. Rachel seats herself carefully and waits for Quinn to do the same.

“I’ve been speaking with Noah.”

“Oh God.”

“I’ve been speaking with Noah,” Rachel blusters on, ignoring Quinn’s eyeroll, “and _he_ seems to think you won’t be rejoining Glee this year. Is that true?”

“From where I’m sitting, I can’t see how it’s your business,” Quinn replies shortly. Her eyes snag on the long line of tan that is Rachel’s left leg, bent at the knee over her right. She looks away.

“It _is_ my business, Quinn,” Rachel insists. “As team captain, it is my responsibility to make sure New Directions is running smoothly.”

Quinn rubs her head tiredly. “Thought that was Schue’s job.”

“Mr. Schuester is an adult with adult responsibilities,” Rachel corrects. “He is far too busy to worry about the basic maintence of group atmosphere. That area belongs to me.”

“Okay. But it’s still not your say whether or not I come back,” Quinn says slowly. Rachel’s lips pucker.

“While I am aware of that, it’s important to remind you that we may only function in competitions if we have a minimum of _twelve_ members. With Sam gone—“

“Wait, where did Sam go?” Quinn interrupts. Rachel has the decency to color slightly.

“His father got a job down south. They moved out last week.”

A boulder settles in Quinn’s stomach, her morning breath somehow tasting worse than before. Sam was the person she had been most looking forward to showing her new style. Sam would have been the first person to clap her on the shoulder and smile, to tell her how pretty her eyes still were, to have her back regardless of what anyone else said. Without Sam—

 _You don’t need him. You don’t need_ anyone _. That’s the point._

“Okay,” she says again, less steadily this time. “So Sam’s gone. That still leaves—“

“A deficiency,” Rachel interrupts, holding up both hands and ticking the names off on her fingers. “We have myself, Finn, Noah, Santana, Brittany, Tina, Mike, Artie, Mercedes, Kurt, and Lauren. If Lauren even chooses to return, which is a questionable situation at best. Since her breakup with Noah, there might well be nothing bringing her back to us. Which is perfectly all right, if you ask me, since her vocals were shaky and her dance moves just short of atrocious, but—“

“The point, Rachel.” Quinn probes her brow with shaking fingers. Rachel nods.

“My point is, if Lauren fails to return, it leaves us with only eleven members. If _you_ likewise decide not to join us, we will be at a considerable loss.”

“I need coffee,” Quinn announces, pushing herself off the couch. “You want coffee?”

“If you have sugar?”

She nods mindlessly and leads the way to the kitchen. The pot is still full and relatively fresh; when she has a mug in her hands, she leans against the counter and looks Rachel in the eye.

“Listen, Rachel, I’m…touched that you would come by here. It really shows you, um. Care. But the thing is, it really isn’t your business. If I come back, it’s going to be because _I_ want to, not because you’ve guilted me.”

“I assure you, guilt is the last thing on my mind,” Rachel protests. Quinn watches her swirl far too much sugar into her own cup, fascinated that someone with the apparently-boundless energy cell Rachel possesses would need anything extra.

“Good. Glad to hear it.”

“But I’m still concerned,” Rachel goes on, sipping her coffee. “We need you, Quinn. Far more than I think you realize, and—“

 _We need you. Great. But what about_ you _, Rachel? Do you need me?_

The bitter thought takes her completely off-guard, her whole spine tightening uncomfortably with the force of it. She peers back into her mug.

“You don’t need me, Rachel.”

“Of course we do!” One small hand lands, imploring, upon her bare arm. Quinn nearly wrenches away.

“You don’t. I promise. You’ve got a beautiful voice, Rachel, and the drive to use it. You’ll be perfectly fine without me. And I’m sure there are some new kids just bursting to show off their musical prowess.” Rachel’s mouth opens to respond; Quinn reaches out and plants a hand directly over the other girl’s parted lips. “Shut up. Okay? You’re great, Rachel, and so is the club, but I don’t think I can handle it this year. Not again. You and Finn, you’ll lead them to Nationals again, and you’ll probably even take a trophy home, but I’m not going to be involved. Understand?”

Eyes wide, breath coiling warm and wet against Quinn’s palm, Rachel hesitantly nods. Quinn smiles weakly.

“Just don’t go sending anybody to a crackhouse this year, and you’re golden.”

She’s a little surprised the tiny girl doesn’t bite her in retaliation.

 

_9_

The first day of school finds Quinn walking out the door in full badass garb, her hair disheveled and vibrant, her bag slung across one shoulder. She considers slipping a package of cigarettes into her folded shirtsleeve, but the idea seems a hair too tacky. She settles for slipping both cigarettes and Zippo lighter into her pants pocket and smirking at Judy as she leaves.

Her mother doesn’t try to faint this time, but Quinn’s pretty sure she’ll be racking up some therapy charges soon all the same.

Her car is still too nice, too befitting of the Prom-Queen-to-be, but there’s nothing she can do about that. As Puck pointed out, most badasses would kill and steal and trade their own grandmothers for a nice car; there’s no shame in being ahead of the curve.

The looks begin almost immediately—first glances of interest, then full-blown shock. She sees Kurt’s jaw hit the floor from a mile away and twists down the next hallway to avoid him. It’s impossible to hold out forever, but she figures one moment at a time is the way to go.

Jacob Ben Israel snaps a drooling photo with his iPhone. She scowls and bares her teeth, amused when he performs an instant disappearing act inside his locker.

“Holy _shit_ , Fabray,” Santana’s voice rings out behind her. Dressed in her form-fitting Cheerio uniform, with Brittany’s fingers nestled through her own, she is a picture of barely controlled scorn. And possibly lust.

Brittany’s grin is definitely verging on the creepier end of the spectrum. “Hi, Quinn.”

“Hey, Britt.” She raises her chin in defiance. “We going to have another smackdown, Lopez?”

Her best friend grins. “Fuck, no, baby. Your hair alone would blind me. Good summer, then?”

She feels a single burst of guilt, realizing it has been two months since she’s so much as texted this girl—the one who spent a handful of gut-wrenching days on her floor, smothering terrified sobs with a sleeping bag—and then brushes it aside. Santana looks good. Happy, even. Santana doesn’t need Quinn around to hold her hand.

Santana found what she needed a long time ago.

“You look hot,” Brittany points out, one arm slinking around Santana’s waist, chin resting on Santana’s shoulder. “Super-hot. I want to dye my hair green, but Coach says she’d string me up from a tree branch until the color drained out.”

Quinn smirks. “Maybe next year, B. I’ll see you guys around.”

“Better steer clear of Sylvester’s office for a while,” Santana calls after her. “Bitch won’t take this lying down, you know.”

That much is absolutely true, Quinn knows; Sylvester will take the short skirt and fishnets desperately personally, as if Quinn is actively throwing years of grooming back into her face. Which, she supposes, she sort of is. If only by default.

The looks she gets as she strolls down the hall range from petrified to intrigued. One stoner lifts his hand to his ear and mimes, _Call me_. A girl with a tattoo stamped down her inner arm flashes Quinn a knowing smile. Quinn nods back, just careless enough to be cool. She’d make a note to thank Mike for his instruction later, if that in itself wasn’t going against the code of new!Quinn.

There are a lot of things she’s going to have to remember not to do from now on.

She spots Finn, who looks shell-shocked all over again at the sight of her, and Puck, who shoots her the rock-on hand signal. Both earn a nod. She’s pretty sure she sees Finn trip over his shoelace a second later.

This is good, she thinks. This is very good, if only a start. She can totally keep this up all year, the distant badass who is well-beyond giving a shit. She can do this for the rest of the year, and maybe for the rest of her life, depending on how—

“Hello, Quinn.”

She skids to a stop, barely hanging on to her derisive expression. Rachel smiles up at her, arms folded across her prim little sweater. Quinn almost smiles.

“Hey.”

“I like your necklaces,” Rachel says, reaching out to twirl a chain around her fingertip. Quinn’s ears go hot under her hair.

“Thanks, Berry.”

“I was wondering,” Rachel goes on, a little too coy for Quinn’s comfort, “if you’d given any more thought to—“

“Not comin’ back, Berry,” she interrupts, leaning against the nearest locker. A freshman girl stares soundlessly up at her before backing away. Rachel frowns.

“I was hoping you’d changed your mind since we last spoke.”

“Nope.” Another rocker guy tries to catch her eye over Rachel’s head. She ignores him. Rachel sighs.

“I don’t understand you, Quinn Fabray.”

“Is that new?” Quinn smirks down at her, amused when Rachel’s cheeks pinken. “Sorry, Rach. I’m not up for singing my feelings anymore.”

“I understand,” Rachel sighs, clearly not understanding at all. Quinn watches her spin the combination on her locker.

“You missed,” she observes helpfully. Rachel’s frown deepens.

“I can’t help it. You’re distracting me.”

“Sorry,” Quinn replies without an ounce of sincerity. Rachel glances up.

“Staring is rude, Quinn.”

“Sorry,” she says again with a grin, leaning closer. Rachel smacks the locker in frustration.

“Well, _you_ do it then, if you’re going to be like that.”

It wasn’t part of her badass new plan, opening Rachel Berry’s locker for her on the first day, but Quinn does it anyway. Rachel huffs up at her, handing over the books that belong on the highest shelf.

“You are insufferable, you know.”

“So my mother tells me.” Quinn sweeps the last book into the locker and bangs it shut, stepping around behind Rachel. It feels deliciously wrong to mold her body up against the smaller girl’s back and press her lips against her ear, but Rachel’s shiver only makes her want to do it more. The tongue-tied feeling from summer is gone. “No Glee for me, Berry, but let me know if you want to do lunch sometime. We could be friends. Maybe.”

Rachel’s mouth opens and closes, her head turning a fraction of an inch to catch Quinn’s gaze. “Friends? We’ve never been friends. You don't like me.”

“Sure, I like you. Why not? There’s nothing to fight over anymore.” Quinn shrugs, brushing Rachel's arm with one hand as she sidles from the lockers. “After all, what do you have that I could possibly want?”

She walks away, hips swaying, feeling Rachel’s eyes burning into her back, and can’t help but smile to herself. She's doing this, for real this time. She can feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins, proving her right. The persona makes up steps one through nine on the track to finding the real Quinn Fabray. She’s got the persona down.

She gets the feeling step ten, that last essential little piece, is going to be a little more complicated...but maybe, judging by the startled expression on Rachel's face, a lot more fun.

Hello, senior year.


End file.
